seldom do you come to this place but we remember you. surfacing at random -
to odd applause and all the gaudy paradigms at your betrothal.
wed to the mark of sugar cane. you sustain your incomparable vigil
on a toadstool in a cuckoo’s nest…
shackled to a Fae
sunset.
Like a dime to a
lost deal.

I have seen your moons. crumpled in the disarray of lost orbits
tunneling through the miasma of an imperfect rebellion made of plump lips -
and applesauce.
a golden blue atrocity, unvanquished by a spot
of False Hope… on a speck of Real Life.
you have a temple to attend to.
you have all the
harm of sleep.
too alive to recover a memory.
and too forgetful to
recall.

your periwinkle is all the blue corn on yellow-green stilts
simmering in the solitude of a raging silence…
where the moon is closer than you think
but you can’t be sure how many moons in a night sky
makes another world.
on the brink of an everlasting disarray
you can go for days without boys
that remove the sun from its perch
to impress a devoted
zodiac. wilting in a ravenous
Tea Cup.

i have enjoyed our talks
on the rim of The Rhine.
bathed in golden fleece to the tune
of passing ever by.
i have lept into a margin of Paradise
the width of a splinter in a cloven hoof.
i have known you from the beginning demise
of my hearts’ quiet.
i have supposed
unloving you
is not required.
i must always
and always must be
an entire
impractical
agog.

I love you
and that's
because

i assume the doom you crave is a silent relent on a peninsula
of disquieted content. a ginger so daffodil that a kite
is often mistaken as a coffin with no balloons.
i assume you’re not where the map knows
where a woman keeps her things.

the way you flirt with blank fingertips to grip the spire of some dystopian flame.
it makes you the goddess i condone… the worship at sea… toppled across horizons
beyond Poseidon in such a way as to yearn more
than every lonesome thing… unkempt in the blithering enigma of You.
with too many kernels of wicked thoughts
to be a good girl.

when you swaggered into view… i assumed you had rainbows
wrinkled in time like a dayglow yurt on the moon.
your ******* too strange to be dealt with by chest.
my hands wanton and disassembled in my yearning.
i had never caught a glimpse so heavy as your wondrous magnolian charms.
and thusly, all things withered when you stepped
out of light.

there is no summer in my skin but the bees and the lint
clinging to the flop sweat of my invisible dreaming. clinging to my notion
of anything Other than this.
i have clover in my teeth and James Joyce in my marrow like a cog
in fever… I keep leaving you where I found myself at a loss.
but i return with a poem always
to breadcrumb you out.

but here’s the thing….
my kind of disrepair is a healing cacophony that has the music
that kills the lover the most. Life is the whirligig of a purpose
Loving harder than a grave mistake.
And all time is a momentous conclusion
that continues.
without a Cause.

Just my kind of broke.

II

there is no summer in my skin… only January's tongue
kissing dark and cement.
a slim hemisphere of wide eclipse
on the thinkless edge of my enormous
insignificance.
i come from a horde of unhinged things
where rabbits run like blank stars on garters
the Creator gave to women
for to hear them
bargain… in a silhouette
of extinguished
hard loss.

Regardless.

My kind of broke is how i know this
for no reason… and my charms
clink in the soft spot of my terminal Forever.
Mocking the Everafter
of a wrong Sun

all night.